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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694370">i’m not a doctor but i think i might be able to help</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayquxck/pseuds/jayquxck'>jayquxck</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Clone High</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Clone High - Freeform, Gay, Implied Sexual Content, Kinda, M/M, Whump, ish, jk it’s mentioned like once, soft vibes, this tag is SO EMPTY, vincent patches up his boyf</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-09-28</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-06 04:48:50</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>General Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>1,373</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/26694370</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/jayquxck/pseuds/jayquxck</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>jfk gets into a fight like an idiot. luckily, vincent is there to help.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>JFK/Vincent Van Gogh</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>11</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>313</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>i’m not a doctor but i think i might be able to help</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>guys this is SO SOFT i’m so proud of it !!!<br/>it’s rlly just vincent taking care of jfk after a fight it’s wholesome </p><p>i hope you enjoy!!</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Vincent sat back on his bed, paintbrushes threaded between his fingers as he sat up, admiring the mural he’d finally finished on his ceiling. Since he was so interested in art and practically nothing else, his foster mom gave him free rein to do anything he wanted to do with his room, and so he took all of his paint and went nuts with it. </p><p>The walls, and now the ceiling, were covered in beautiful and intricate murals, all hand-painted. The ceiling had a large and hilly night, with white stars glistening in the navy blue sky. It took him about a week to finish completely (including several all-nighters and mornings full of emotional instability) and he was finally, finally finished. Sitting back proudly, he smiled a little to himself and hopped off the bed to set his brushes into their jar on his desk. </p><p>The doorbell rang and his head popped up at the sound. Who could be here? He got up to answer it, but he heard his foster mother greet the all-too-familiar voice and his face instantly heated up. </p><p>“Hi, John,” he hears the muffled noises of a Boston accent and he hears his mother turn to the stairs, “he’s right upstairs. Vincent, honey! You’ve got a visitor!” </p><p>Vincent hurriedly wiped the paint off of his hands onto his shirt and he rushed down the stairs, stopping dead in his tracks when he saw JFK, standing in his doorway, talking happily to his mother. He was wearing a grey hoodie, the hood pulled up and over his head, which was strange because it concealed his face but Vincent could still make out his perfect smile and he paused. “Hi, John,” he says eventually, and his mother shoots the two of them a knowing glance, which only made Vincent’s face heat up more. </p><p>“Hiya, Vinnie. Do you, uh, mind if we head upstairs?” his head nods toward the stairs, and Vincent gulps, nodding slowly before starting back up the stairs. He hears his mother snicker before they finally make it into his room, John now sitting down on the bed and taking off his hood. </p><p>Vincent instantly gasped. Kennedy looked like he’d gotten mugged; his bottom lip was split open and bleeding and his left eye was swollen and darkened. There was a line of dried blood running from his nose and there was splattered dried blood all over his knuckles and a bit on his face. His jaw on the left side was bruised up to the junction of his ear to about the corner of his mouth. He rushed over and cradled his face, tilting it so he could see better. “Oh my god, what happened to you?” </p><p>Although it looks painful, JFK musters a smirk. “Got into a fight with some assholes at the field. Didn’t want to go home, my dads would have a stroke. So I-er, uh, ran here, ‘cause they won’t look for me here.” </p><p>Vincent runs his thumb over JFK’s bruised jaw and sits back. “Okay, okay, hold on,” he flings open his bedroom door, “I’ll get the first aid kit. Stay here and don’t move a muscle.” </p><p>Chuckling at Vincent’s concern, JFK sits back on the bed, back pressed to the wall, just to catch his breath a little. He looked around and noticed that Vincent had finished painting the ceiling. He’d been working on it for weeks, and JFK had come over a few times to keep him company while he painted. It was quiet, but comfortably so, and Kennedy didn’t mind keeping him company. </p><p>Although he couldn’t see very well, he admired the paint, and his heart swelled with pride. Kennedy had never been very interested in art and never had plans to become interested in the topic. Nonetheless, he attempted to make an effort in order to show Vincent that he cared. And even someone as unobservant as him could tell this was a masterpiece. He was impressed on multiple fronts. He could never have the patience for that. </p><p>Vincent rushed back in, a box of first aid items in one hand and a wet washcloth in the other, and he looked slightly relieved to see that JFK was still there. He sat across from him on the bed and sat up on his knees to try and reach his face. “Okay. Just hold still.” </p><p>Kennedy didn’t look at him. His attention remained on the ceiling. “It looks amazing,” he grins, and finally looks down at him, “Jesus, I-er uh, it’s almost like a picture!” </p><p>Vincent turns bright red. “It’s… alright,” he says in a quiet voice, and takes the washcloth to start wiping the blood off of his face. </p><p>Kennedy looks down at him with admiration. “No, no, it’s not alright,” he says, and Vincent almost passes out from the amount of joy and pride beaming from his boyfriend, “it’s absolutely gorgeous. I love it.” </p><p>After a moment in silence, Vincent smiles, face burning. “Well… thank you,” he says even quieter than before and resumes his gentle task. </p><p>He works in silence for a few minutes, eventually cleaning his face off before he holds out his hand, prompting Kennedy to hold his own hand out for him. Vincent starts taking the blood off of his knuckles, too. The silence wasn’t anything uncomfortable but Vincent had just one burning question, and he couldn’t help but blurt it out. “...did you win?” </p><p>JFK’s head falls back and he starts to laugh, that annoying laugh when he knows he’s right about something. “‘Course I won! What do ya take me for, Vinnie?” </p><p>Vincent smiles a little to himself, and once he’s sure he’s cleaned all the blood off of his hand he opens the first aid kit. Taking out a spool of gauze, he starts to wrap his bare and bruised knuckles with it, almost like a cast. “Here, I’ll get you some ice for your eye,” he starts to get up now, ignoring Jack’s protesting. He rushed down the stairs and got a bag of frozen peas from the freezer and decided that would suffice before running back upstairs. </p><p>JFK took it from him, smiling softly before sitting back a little and pressing it to his eye. “Thank you, Vinnie,” he says quietly and takes a moment to just soak it all in before his one working eye popped back open. “So much.” </p><p>Vincent smiles warmly and scoots over to sit next to JFK, setting his head onto his chest and curling up like a ball, almost. Kennedy puts an arm around him. “Your mom won’t mind if I-er uh-spend the night,” he asks, trying to make it sound like a rhetorical question, “will she?” </p><p>Shaking his head, Vincent glances out his bedroom door, in case she was listening in or something. “She won’t mind at all,” he thinks back to the time where she just narrowly missed walking in on JFK in just his boxers sneaking out the window. Vincent remembers laughing for the first time in months over the phone as JFK talked about how uncomfortable that conversation with his dads was (as well as the run home; it’s not every day you see a 6’5 absolutely jacked 17 year old in just his boxers running up Main Street) and he smiles fondly at the thought. “Just make sure all your clothes are on this time.” </p><p>“Shut up,” John says, teasingly, and pokes Vincent in the side, which causes him to giggle a little bit, “I didn’t hear ya complaining then, and I don’t wanna hear it now.” Vincent turned bright red at this, and JFK laughed, running his hands through Vincent’s hair soothingly. </p><p>In an attempt to change the subject, Vincent reaches over and pulls a blanket over of the two of them. “You should get some sleep or something,” he says, basically tucking both himself and JFK in beneath the comforter, “you look exhausted.” </p><p>Kennedy shrugs, but lays down anyway. “Maybe in a little,” he says, “I like laying here with you.” </p><p>Vincent’s face heats up again, and he almost doesn’t respond. Then, he rolls over. “Stop flirting with me and go to sleep, dumbass, you can’t even see.” </p><p>John laughs so hard he starts to cough.</p>
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